Free An Accidental Affair by Eric Jerome Dickey Page B

call.
    I went and stood before my magical Underwood. Next to that magical machine was the script that had torn my world apart. I had been proud of that script when I had finished. Now it was my black beast. Regina Baptiste was the actress in the dark, erotic, suburban thriller. A movie that was like a Richard Yates’s novel, dialogue quickand as rich as the words of Chandler, but, like
Body Heat
, it was also as intense as it was sensual.
    Hollywood had wanted it as hot as it was Kaufman-brilliant.
    Once Johnny Handsome had signed on, my wife fought to get the part of the lead actress. She demanded a hit movie. Her last film had opened at number three, trounced by a lousy motion picture with a contrived gospel theme and an over-the-top comedy. She wanted to be number one. I wanted her to be number one. I wanted that association. I was married to Hollywood too. The brilliant were needed, talent was demanded, but only the hardnosed survived. The brilliant lived in soup lines and homeless shelters and told stories of how they
coulda woulda shoulda
been rich and famous. Fame had no ceiling. No matter how well people did, they wanted bigger and they wanted better. Everyone wanted a
Titanic
. An
Avatar
. An
Inception
.
    I inhaled the staleness of my eight-hundred-dollars-a-month prison.
    Above me, my neighbors returned to the art of copulation, the squeaks from a much cheaper bed screaming in my ears. They had a different rhythm this time. It was like listening to a different song. Like listening to different people engaging in sex. The rhythm was different, but her moans sounded the same. When Holder and Isabel were here, it was like salsa. Two hours hour ago was like jazz. Now it was like hard-core rock. I stared at the ceiling and all I could see was Johnny Bergs pumping himself inside my wife. I went into the kitchen, made a cup of Jack Daniels, sweetened it with a little tea, bit on a cookie, bit on fruit, ate some of Vera-Anne’s cooking. Buzzed and naked, I looked around me, took in what had been an impulsive move.
    When I was done, I made another cup of Jack, sans the tea. I wanted a glass big enough to dive into so I could swim to the bottom and come back to the top and tread in my misery. I kept my angst to myself. Nobody wanted tea and empathy, even when they bought thetea. So I did like most men when something pissed them off, I attacked my innocent liver.
    In a bitter, inebriated tone, I whispered, “Regina Baptiste. Damn you.”
    Everywhere, in every corner, she surrounded me, a dozen beautiful wraiths dancing in pure cocaine. Then I was more worried about her than I was angered with her. I turned on my iPhone and tried to call her numbers. They all went to voice mail and her message box was full.
    Before I could shut the iPhone off, it rang.
    I looked at the caller ID: UNKNOWN.
    I answered in a voice filled with anger and concern; “Regina, where the fuck are you?”
    “You sound like a broken man, James Thicke. I know what that feels like.”
    “Who is this?”
    “This is not Regina Baptiste, you backstabbing bastard.”
    “Then this is somebody less important.”
    “We need a face-to-face. Personal issues aside. We can be professional about this.”
    “It wouldn’t be mutually beneficial.”
    “How do you know?”
    “Your record makes the Timberwolves look like world champions.”
    “Things are about to change. Pull your head out of your ass. I need a meeting.”
    “You’ve gone off the deep end.”
    “Almost as deep as Johnny Bergs was inside your wife.”
    “Fuck you, Bobby Holland. Fuck you.”

Chapter 9
     
    Bobby Holland’s foreign voice made my bowels itch. We had a history as kind as the final days of Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis. We’d crossed paths for years. In this business, we all crossed paths over and over. I knew his ugly, bitter, cynical attitude. And he knew mine.
    “How did you get my number, Bobby? Meant to ask you that the last time.”
    “I’m parked near a Mediterranean